


In the shadow of your blood

by Signe_chan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: But it's okay, Hannibal is a murder ghost, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Will Graham has issues, because everyone is a ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signe_chan/pseuds/Signe_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has always been able to see ghosts so the idea of living in a haunted house doesn't phase him like it does some people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the shadow of your blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please see end of fic for content warnings.

“Clear the scene,” Jack yelled. Will stood with his eyes turned to the floor as he waited for them to go. 

Once he was alone he risked a glance at the body. She’d been sacrificed, scalped, then holes drilled into her skull. Gruesome, almost surgical. Then he turned from the body to the victim. She was cowering by a tree, head hidden in her hands. Her hair was gone here, too. It meant he’d probably scalped her while she was still alive. 

“Hey,” he said, softly, moving to crouch by her. 

“You can see me?” Her eyes shot up and he looked away quickly. First rule was always to avoid eye contact. “I’m...I’m going mad. Nobody can hear me, they all act like I’m not here and I don’t know who that is lying over there that looks like me but it’s not me.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“Kaitlyn.” 

“I’m really sorry, Kaitlyn,” Will said, staring at the tree roots through her feet. “That is you.” 

“But...I…” she started. Then she stopped herself. He glanced up to see her shaking her head. Burying her face back in her hands. He understood. He’d done this so many times over the years, seen so many reactions to death. It was rarely accepted calmly. 

“Kaitlyn, I need you to listen. I’m sorry and I know this is hard but I can help you. I can help you move on, to bring the person who did this to you to justice. Do you understand me?” 

“How can you help me?” she sobbed. “I’m fucking dead.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “And you’ve got two choices now. You can stay here. You can become more and bitter and more angry. You can be stuck in these woods forever, lost and hurting and alone, or you can go on.” 

“You mean, like, heaven? Oh god, I’m not ready for heaven.” 

“I don’t know where they go. I do know I’ve been doing this for a long time and people’s faces when they go? When I die, I’m not staying.” 

“You’re telling me to just die?” 

“No, I’m telling you not to let the person who did this to you destroy you. I can stop him, and you can find peace.” 

“I…” 

“Let me catch him. Don’t let him do this to anyone else.” 

“And they’re going to fucking believe you? What, you’re going to say a ghost told you who killed her?” 

“No,” Will said. He reached into his pocket, took out his ID And held it up for her to see. “I’m a profiler. I’ll tell them who did it and they’ll believe me. I’ll make up a story for them, create a profile that can only fit the right person.” 

“You’re crazy.” 

“It’s worked every time so far.” 

“No, this is all crazy,” the girl said, jumping to her feet. He hated the angry ones. They took so much longer to talk down than the sad ones, or the numb ones. The vengeful ones were the best, he barely had to ask for a description. “This whole thing is mad. I...I’m going to medical school. I got my letter. I just need to send it back and…” 

She stopped next to her body. Reached up and ran her fingers through her own cheek. she drifted round, ran her finger along her skull, counted the holes. 

“Twenty-five,” she said, softly. “One for each year. I can’t...all this work. Everyone telling me ‘you can’t’ and ‘it’’s not enough’ and ‘stop trying’ and then when I finally get in....” 

“It’s sick,” Will agreed. 

“And you can stop him?” 

“He’ll never see the light of day again.” 

“Okay,” she said. “I...okay. I’m not going away quietly after this, though.” 

“That’s up to you. Just let me help you.” 

“Well, here’s what happened…” 

***

“So, this is the ghost house, right?” 

“I’d prefer you didn’t call it that,” Will said, shrugging out of his coat. He hung it up on one of the hooks set in the wall by the door and winced a little. It was nearly a year now and his things still felt like they didn’t fit here. He still felt like he didn’t fit here. 

He sometimes thought he should have taken the house in Wolf Trap, even if this one was a much better deal. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana said, setting her bag down. He took her coat and hung it for her. It looked much more like it belonged. “It’s just...you’d think that since you spend all day dealing with the dead you wouldn’t want to come home to a place like this.” 

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Alana.” 

“Well, obviously. But you spend all your day at crime scenes. Why would you want to live in one?” 

“Well, I cleaned up the corpses,” Will joked. “Besides, the last guy who lived here didn’t even die.” 

“No, he ran it as a ghost museum then fled it after six months, refused to come back, and sold up, wholesale.” 

“The kind of guy who sets up a ghost house is someone with an active imagination,” Will grumbled. He lead Alana through into the kitchen. Hannibal was lurking by the sink and opened his mouth but, when he saw Alana, closed it again. Will ignored him for now. “You want a drink?” 

“Please. Tea.” 

“No problem,” Will said, desperately hoping he had tea. He glanced at Hannibal who smiled and gestured at one of the cupboards. Will opened the door and, yes, there was a teapot and some loose leaf tea. He breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed them, heading over to the sink to rinse the pot out. He just hoped the leaves were in date. Did they even go out of date? 

“You can’t really blame the guy for trying to run it as a haunted house, though. Not with the number of people who’ve died here.” 

“I guess not,” Will agreed. He could but, really, it was only because of the entire murder ghosts thing that he’d managed to buy the place. Nobody else wanted it and he hadn’t been in a good place at the time. He’d been missing time and sleep walking and it had seemed like poetic justice somehow that he should live in a house with a murderous ghost. 

But then he’d met Hannibal and things had been much better. 

“Why are you even here, Alana?” 

“I just thought you might need someone to talk to,” she said, shifting self-consciously. He knew enough to know that wasn’t the full truth. 

“Jack sent you.” 

“He’s worried, Will. We all are. You shouldn't be rattling around this old place alone.” 

He wasn’t alone. He was less alone than he’d ever been. But he couldn’t expect them to understand that. 

Since he’d been a child, he’d always been alone. When he’d been very small he hadn’t known that the people he was seeing were ghosts. They weren’t the scary kind like you saw in cartoons, with big red eyes, who chased you around. His ghosts were normally quieter. Tended to ignore him. Just stood and stared at a fixed point in space. 

But, still, his mother had never been able to handle him talking about them. They’d sent him to therapy but he hadn’t been able to learn not to say anything fast enough and she’d left. And then they’d moved and he’d learnt that it was better to say nothing at all. 

He hadn’t spoken for three years. 

And then he’d found that, sometimes, the ghosts talked. 

“You should have some people around,” she said. “Or, I don’t know, get some dogs or something.” 

“I would like a dog.” Out of the corner of his eye Will saw Hannibal turn his nose up ever so slightly. 

“It’s just...you really weren’t doing well for a while there. We all thought…” 

“You all thought that moving into a house that’s been a murder scene so many times would make me worse and now you’re surprised that it didn’t.” 

“Basically. And things have been pretty intense at work. The Ripper’s been killing again…” 

“I do know that,” Will said, rolling his eyes. He finished making the tea and brought it over to the table in the pot. He set down two cups and let Alana pour. He didn’t really drink the stuff but it seemed a waste not to drink it when he’d made an entire pot. “I know logically I should be feeling worse. That things are worse. But the honest truth is that I’m feeling better than I have in a long time.” 

“Well, if you say so,” Alana said. She sipped the tea and she didn’t immediately wrinkle her nose or make a politely distant expression so it must have been okay. “Want to just talk like friends instead?” 

“I can handle that.” 

***

It was a few hours later when Hannibal reappeared. Will was sat in the lavishly decorated sitting room, slouching low in a chair that he’d probably be scandalised by if he saw it in a shop and had to look at the price label. 

“Honestly,” Will said, turning to smile at Hannibal. “Don’t you find it kind of creepy that Spencer tracked down so much of your old furniture and brought it back.” 

“Possibly,” Hannibal said. He made his way over and brushed his fingers over the back of the chair. He then extended his hand and ran it through Will’s curls. Will felt it like a light breeze. Chilling and gentle. “Though, I suppose, I should thank him. It took great care in choosing these things, it’s good to see them again.” 

“Well, it’s lucky for you I’m lazy,” Will said. Any sane person would have thrown it all out when they moved in but Will liked it. 

“Material things are not of great importance,” Hannibal said with a shrug, moving around so Will could see him. He sat in the other chair, at the other side of the fire. In the firelight he looked even less opaque than usual but Will was used to that. 

“Easy for you to say.” 

“I have always believed that. You see now the echos of my later life, but I spent many years of my childhood with nothing. I could leave these things just as easily, they have little value to me.” 

“Props. They suggest the life you wanted people to believe you had.” 

“As you say.” 

Will mulled that over for a second. The furniture Hannibal had chosen was rich, evocative of decadence and that seemed to fit the man. In the time he’d been here, Will had come to know Hannibal very well. He wasn’t like other spirits. Or, rather, he was more like the newly dead than the old. Self-possessed. Will presumed that, in life, he would have been a force to be reckoned with. 

“The dinner parties,” Will asked, gesturing at the dining room.

“Theater, of course. I do greatly miss the theater.” 

Will hummed but didn’t prompt further. He’d learnt early on that explicitly referring to Hannibal’s death was likely to end the conversation. He didn’t want the conversation to end yet. 

“Food was my indulgence. The possessions, the theatrics, they were what society expected of me. The food was mine.” 

“You should teach me to cook, you know. I know that it likely wouldn't be up to your standards, I live with your kitchen, but you could try.” 

“Dear Will, you live with a shadow of what my kitchen once was. I must admit that the idea of cooking for you holds some appeal.” 

“And then you could stop complaining about my eating takeout.” 

“You should be more mindful about what you place in your body.” 

Will snorted but he stood, rolling his back. Hannibal stood with him. Come close enough that their hands would have brushed if Hannibal were still alive. 

Some days Will really wished Hannibal was still alive. 

Though, if he was, he’d probably never bother with someone like Will. 

“Come one,” Will stand, turning to the kitchen. “Let’s go see what we can do.” 

***

Hannibal had been murdered in the kitchen. His ghost was always strongest there. Spencer, when he’d tried to turn the house into a stop on the tourist trail, had stained a patch of the floor red. The actual patch where Hannibal had been found, lifeless. He’d been a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper. Or so the textbooks said, though he’d marked a departure in style from the Ripper’s earlier killings. Sure, they were similar, but to an eye as highly trained as Will’s...

The Ripper, whoever he was, was clever. None of his victims had ever told Will anything clear. 

Hannibal refused to talk about it too but Will was fine with that. He’d seen the way talking about it sometimes made spirits fade. Made them accept their deaths a little more. 

Hannibal wasn’t ready to accept his death yet. Will wasn’t ready to accept it either. 

***

Will made sure that he came home alone the next day. Hannibal met him at the door, smiled on finding him alone. 

“Hey,” Will said, letting some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. “I’m here.” 

“Welcome back,” Hannibal said. He extended a hand then brought it back in sharply. An aborted attempt to take Will’s jacket. Will turned and pretended not to notice the gesture, hanging his own jacket. It was his house too, after all. 

He knew it probably wasn’t healthy to consider this a shared house but it was still full of Hannibal’s possessions, still stained by the man’s presence. In many ways, it was still more Hannibal's house than Will’s. 

“I bought ingredients,” he said, triumphantly. “Exactly what you asked for.” 

“Excellent,” Hannibal said, a smile flickering across his lips. “Then let us retire to the kitchen.” 

Will nodded and followed him. 

Hannibal apparently intended to waste no time. He directed Will to lay out the food and then came to stand behind him, going over the finer points of its preparation. 

Will couldn’t help but smile to himself. He’d never met a ghost quite like Hannibal before. One so engaged with the world of the living after so long. 

Honestly, when he’d bought the house, he’d expected something else entirely. He’d gotten a worried phone call from the previous owner when he’d made an offer to buy the place and Will wasn’t under any delusion that the man was just mad. 

The thing was, most ghosts couldn’t do a thing to hurt anyone, they just showed up and looked sad, most of the time. But a rare few could influence the physical world still, could be dangerous. Will was very aware that Hannibal was the dangerous kind of ghost. 

The guy who’d owned the house before Will had described all kinds of phenomena, particularly once he’d started bringing the old furniture back in. Strange sounds. Banging. Things falling. Things being thrown. Knives, in particular, moving from where they should be. He’d woken up more than once to find a knife on his pillow. It had been too much for anyone. 

Hannibal was only the first person murdered in this house, after all. The next occupant had committed suicide. The one after had stabbed his wife then disappeared. The last one, an unsolved murder again. It didn’t take much to add it up. 

But he’d also known that, if he didn’t take the house, sooner or later someone else would. And while he didn’t want to live with a murderous ghost, he could at lease see the thing to argue with it. 

Hannibal was very much NOT what Will had been expecting. 

He’d seemed as surprised to be seen as Will was to see him and from the first he’d been a gracious host. He seemed to appreciate that Will kept the furniture and would converse with him. He’d never once felt the need to leave a knife on Will’s pillow. 

Will was, of course, aware how easily he could lose that good will but, for now, was happy to have it. Was happy to have someone to share his house with, his life with. Even if it was in this most unconventional way. 

Under Hannibal’s guidance he plated up the food and carried it over to his table. As he sat, Hannibal hovered at his elbow. 

“I wish there was a way to let you taste this,” Will said. “I’m afraid my palate probably isn’t up to the task of properly appreciating it.” 

“Nonsense,” Hannibal said with a smile. He settled in the chair that Will left pulled out for him. It was almost like he was a real dinner companion. “This recipe is not so complex that one must have a refined palate to appreciate it. True, there are nuances of the dish you may miss but…” 

“But what do you expect?” Will said, scooping up some food and eating it. He tried to appreciate it in more depth, he really did. Even he could tell that this was better than what he usually ate. He was sure he was missing out on a lot though. 

Hannibal was watching him with hungry eyes. He wished he could translate the experience for him. Could describe the taste of the food in a satisfactory way, let Hannibal taste it with him. 

Actually. 

“There is a solution,” Will said. He suddenly felt nervous, as if he intended to propose something indecent. 

“A solution?” 

“To let you taste the meal.” 

“I assure you Will, this is sufficient.” 

“But I want you to taste it. I can’t offer you much but this one thing I can offer you.” He held out his hand and Hannibal reached over, gently taking it. Then, without further comment, Hannibal slid into Will. 

And it was indecent. It was the most lewd thing Will had ever done, particularly with his pants still on. Hannibal was here with him in his body and it wasn’t like Hannibal forced him out, took control, it was like they were pressed together all over, every atom of them smashed into each other. 

Will and Hannibal cut a piece of the meat. Will and Hannibal lifted it to their lips, tasted it. And this time it was almost like it was a different meal as Will tasted what Hannibal tasted. The tastes, the textures, the million things that he’d failed to appreciate in it himself were there just waiting for the right person to eat it. And Will could feel Hannibal’s simple joy at this pleasure. This indulgence. 

It was one of the most erotic things he’d ever experienced. 

And then Hannibal was slipping back out of Will’s skin, forming into his own being again. He watched Will with knowing eyes and if he’d been substantial Will would have kissed him then. As it was, all Will could do was eat another bite, letting the sensation of Hannibal’s tastes linger on his tongue. 

***

There was a Ripper murder. And another. Two bodies. Two mysteries. Will’s nights became later, his starts earlier. The two ripper ghosts were no use, as usual. Jack was frantic, desperate to catch the killer. Will was tired. 

Sometimes he saw things that weren’t there in the corner of his eye. A stag. A murderer, watching him. Sometimes he looked down to find his hands covered in blood and he blinked again to find it gone. 

Hannibal assured him it was just stress, that he’d be fine. But Hannibal was a murderous ghost. 

Will kept his head down, kept working, tried not to let life get to him. 

And in the evening, he went home to Hannibal. 

***

The day it ended was, in retrospect, absurdly normal. 

Will had been to work, like he did every day. There’d not been any particular clue or breakthrough. He felt as lost as ever with the case. He passed the hours reviewing evidence, hoping to make a link nobody had before. Had an awkward conversation with Jack. Actually left work in time for the first time in over a week. 

On the way home he stopped by the nicer shop to get ingredients for dinner. Sharing his food with Hannibal had become something of a guilty pleasure. And it hurt nobody…

He got home, smiled at Hannibal who was waiting in the hall, and was about to push the door shut behind him when a hand caught it. 

The next second the hand caught Will’s face, pulled it back. A knife flashed. 

And then a bowl crashed to the floor. Unexpected enough to anyone who couldn’t see ghosts to startle them, to stop them mid-swing. Enough for Will to free himself, spin around and come face-to-face with his attacker. 

With the Chesapeake Ripper, because this had to be the ripper. 

He was shorter than Will would have thought. Powerfully built but with a forgettable face and little else to recommend him. And this was the man they’d been chasing for so long. 

And then he attacked and suddenly Will was fighting for his life. 

The Ripper fought with skill and precision. He was merciless and Will found himself on the defensive almost immediately. Found himself stumbling away back into the kitchen, gasping for breath. 

The knife in his side brought him to a halt by the kitchen door. It was torn out again almost straight away and he had to roll to avoid its return, clutching at his own side, trying to hold the parts of himself that should stay inside, inside. Warm blood gushed over his hands, too much of it. 

“Will,” Hannibal said, suddenly urgent and there, and it was easy for Will to reach for him. To let him in. 

Will gave over control, let himself drift away from his body, let Hannibal take it. 

Hannibal stood slowly and calmly. Turned to face the ripper. 

Will had never stopped to think about how Hannibal must have moved, about the strength of him, but clearly he knew his way around a dirty fight. He attacked the ripper before the ripper could attack him. He was quick, strong, clever. The Ripper was more powerful but Hannibal was angrier. 

And it was then, trapped together in Will’s body, that Will understood how Hannibal died. Understood his arrogance, his random selection of a victim. Bringing them here like he always had before - to kill. Because murder was not something that Hannibal had only acquired a taste for after death. 

He understood that this man, this easy target, had been underestimated. He understood the bite of the knife. The fight. He understood Hannibal bleeding out on his own kitchen floor, watching at the other man, triumphant, took his mantle and there was nothing Hannibal could do to stop it. 

Will understood all this as his hands, Hannibal’s hands, raised the knife up through the Ripper’s stomach. Watched him gasp in shock, in pain. Watched him slide off the knife, list of the side, fall back slowly, his blood covering them both. 

He understood everything. 

And then Hannibal was leaving him and he was suddenly very, very aware of the injury in his side. Of the weakness of his own limbs. 

“Oh,” he said, softly. 

“I am sorry, Will,” Hannibal said. There, so close, but not there at all. 

“It’s okay,” Will said, though it wasn’t. It was getting harder and harder by the second to hold himself up. In his hand, the knife was shaking. “The phone. I need an ambulance.” 

“I’m afraid it is too late for that,” Hannibal said, reaching out to touch Will’s hair. He felt almost substantial. “I am sorry, Will.” 

“Not your fault,” Will said, though it kind of was. His fault for letting this other man kill him all those years ago. For letting them meet like this, instead of in a different way. Then maybe things would be different. Though Will couldn’t really see a way for them that didn’t involve death. 

“Here,” Hannibal said, closing his hand around Will’s hand. Around the knife. “I can make it quick for you, dear Will.” 

“I don’t want to die.” 

“But you are dying. If you die here, now, we will be dead together, at least. Is that not better?” 

And Will wanted to laugh because, yeah, if he had to be dead, he wanted it to be with Hannibal. And he was lying right in the damn spot where they found Hannibal’s body all those years ago. 

But he wanted to live. He wanted it badly, life. There was so much left to do…

Only was there? Colleagues. Cases where people thought him better than he was because of what he could see. What he could do. Work and home and Hannibal. Nightmares and shadows and ghosts and Hannibal. Hannibal. The best part of his day, no matter what else he was. 

“If I let you go,” Hannibal was saying, feeling frighteningly more substantial by the minute. “If you die in an ambulance, I will not be able to find you. You will be lost to me. Please, Will.” 

It was the please that did it as much as anything else. Will let Hannibal guide his hand up. Let him place the knife, push it in. It was surprisingly difficult, or maybe Will was just too weak. He pushed, cut, sobbed. Everything was too dark, too heavy. His breath felt wet, laboured, still his hand cut. 

And then his fingers wouldn’t grip any more. He heard the knife fall. Felt himself list to the side. The darkness closed in. 

***

Will opened his eyes. 

He felt strangely the same. He’d expected to feel different. Lighter. Colder. Insubstantial. But he felt the same. 

He sat up, then stood. Wandered a few steps away, looked back at his body. 

There was so much blood. He lay on his side, eyes shut. He looked almost peaceful, if you ignored how he’d carved his own stomach open with inexpert cuts. 

“Ah,” Hannibal’s voice said behind him. “You’re here.” 

“I’m here,” Will agreed, turning. Hannibal looked more solid than he ever had before, though that was probably just because they were the same now. Met on equal footing for the first time. Will reached out and took Hannibal’s hand. Felt the reality of him. The warmth, the weight. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“Sorry to keep you,” Will said, examining their joined hands. “I didn’t...well, I’m not sure there’s anything I could have done to come to you faster.” 

“But you’re here,” Hannibal said. “And you will stay with me.” 

“Yes.” Because Will was very sure of that. No matter what the circumstances. “I’m going to stay.” 

“Excellent,” Hannibal said, and then he leant in for a kiss. 

Even as ghosts, the kiss was maybe the most real thing Will had ever felt. 

***

Will and Hannibal watched as Jack examined the scene. Will almost regretted the decisions he’d made as he watched these people, his friends, but then Hannibal would touch him and he could never really regret anything. 

For a time, the house was theirs. They drifted through it, delighting in each other’s company. In the dark and twisted ways their minds came together, now there were no more barriers between them. Delighting in each other’s bodies, or the memories of their bodies. Experimenting with the limits of their form. With the extent of their influence. 

It was the happiest Will had ever been. 

But even the most haunted house will sell eventually if the price is low enough. No matter how many people have died in it. And soon Will and Hannibal found their peace broken, invaded by a couple who smiled too much and a teenage daughter who didn’t smile enough. 

It was alright, though. By then, Will had learnt how to throw a knife.

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS, CONTAINS SPOILERS
> 
> Hannibal is dead from the beginning of the fic and is a ghost. Will dies over the course of the fic and becomes a ghost. Will's death is described and is partially self-inflicted.


End file.
